


The Network Girl

by dancing_dazai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reader Insert, Realistic Sherlock, fem!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:10:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancing_dazai/pseuds/dancing_dazai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the first time Sherlock has needed an assistant since John moved out of the flat, and the task just so happens to land on Y/N, a friend Sherlock met at the wedding. But what happens when the pair land on a case that not even the great Sherlock Holmes can solve?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Network Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! So, this is my first proper work on AO3 so I hope you enjoy it—anybody who writes Sherlock fics will understand what I mean when I say that Sherlock is a really difficult character to get right (since he is a sociopath) so this took a lot of effort and time to perfect. If you don't think anything is right with his character or if there is something you want me to change, please do tell me in the comments; I need as much feedback as I can get, and I love reading the compliments! ^_^
> 
> Anyway, that's all for now—enjoy!

Sherlock stormed past Mrs Hudson and upstairs to the living room of 221B Baker Street, carelessly throwing his coat on the sofa and his jacket on the table as he walked in. He immediately dropped down in his chair.  
  
His new flatmate Y/N was close behind him, glumly staring at the floor. She looked up and around the flat in which she now lived; it looked just as unkempt as ever, except for slightly less dust on the table and armchairs. Presumably Mrs Hudson had cleaned up a little for them. She'd have to thank her later—right now, she just wanted to sleep.

Sherlock aggressively tugged at his scarf that was still tied tight around his neck, getting frustrated as it wouldn't pull away like it usually did. Y/N slowly walked over to pull it off for him, but he shrugged her hands away curtly and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbow. He kept his head down.

It was the first time Sherlock had offered to take Y/N with him on a case, but they had just lost their only lead to solving it. A man, woman and child—Mr and Mrs Snow and their son, Charlie—had all been murdered in their house in central London. There were no signs of struggle or forced entry; all the doors and windows were locked from the inside but there were no fingerprints whatsoever, not even on the bodies. The three were found lying dead on the sofa, but all the forensics team could find was that they had been poisoned. But to make it worse, Sherlock could deduce nothing from the house that could tell them anything relevant about the murderer or who he might be, which was a rarity for him.

Before making it from the crime scene back to the flat, they had got a call from Detective Inspector Lestrade. The murderer had been in touch, telling them there were more victims—this time, two small children no older than six. And they could do nothing about it.

Y/N looked over at Sherlock, who still had his head down and his eyes closed. She sighed.

"What do we do now, Sherlock?" she asked quietly. Sherlock's eyes opened as she spoke. "I mean, we have no leads. Couldn't you get any clues or details from the house?" He sighed and closed his eyes again.

"It was a standard semi-detached house that the family had owned for at least ten years. It was passed down from Robert Snow's parents to him and his wife, and they'd been living there since their son was born; notice the photos of him as a baby all over the walls of the main hallway, but none of just the married couple, indicating they moved here for him." He took a breath and continued. "The only details I could gather from the living room where they were found was that they had been there for at least two or three hours, and the poison that killed them had been digested in liquid form, not injected, because there were still small traces of the substance around Charlie Snow's mouth. That could be seen as a sign of struggle, if the murderer force-fed them all poison. But they left no footprints or fingerprints..."

"How is that even possible?" Y/N asked.

"Well, anybody can avoid leaving fingerprints if they are wearing gloves, but _footprints?_ He could have avoided wearing shoes with soles somehow, but that seems rather farfetched. I need more data." He slammed his fist down onto the nearby table and leaned back, covering his face with his hands. "Unless we find out how or why he killed them, we can't save the two children he's kidnapped now." 

"He's already kidnapped them?"

"Yes, obviously."

"How–?"

"How do I know that?" Sherlock snapped, causing Y/N to jump. "Because otherwise the murderer wouldn't have told Lestrade there will be more victims! All right?"

Y/N paused, and it was only at this point she realised how much pressure Sherlock was under; his piercing blue eyes were glaring at her viciously and his cheeks had blushed red with the effort to keep himself calm. However, he was clearly stressed with the idea that he didn't have a clue about the killer or his motives, which he usually did. Y/N took a deep breath and calmly walked over to her friend.

"Just take a deep breath, Sherlock. We'll solve this. Once you've ruled out the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Right? There _must_ be a logical explanation."

"Yes, alright," he replied sharply, looking at the floor. Y/N held her ground.

"I know you're stressed, Sherlock. I am too. We just need to wait for the killer to make a mistake—that's what you've always said, isn't it? It might take a day or two, but we _will_ save those kids."

"We can't just wait!" he exclaimed angrily. "We won't save the children in time! Don't be stupid like everyone else!"

Although that insult stung a little, Y/N ignored her friend's sociopathic tendencies and walked through to the kitchen to get some lunch. Once again, she'd had to skip breakfast. She hadn't eaten all day.

By the time she'd made some food for her and Sherlock, he had already gone back to his Mind Palace. With a quiet sigh of annoyance, she took her lunch and retreated to her room.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was still flitting through his memories when his phone started buzzing on the other side of the room. He didn't even open his eyes.

"Y/N, can you pass me my phone?" he called loudly, not realising that she wasn't there. "...Y/N!"

There was the quick pattering of bare feet down the stairs and Y/N quickly appeared in the doorway, her body wrapped in a small towel with another one wrapped round her head. She'd just got out of the shower.

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked, sounding slightly annoyed as she wrapped her arms round her bare shoulders and shivered.

"I asked if you could pass me my phone," he repeated, his eyes still closed. She sighed.

"For God's sake, Sherlock." Rummaging around in his coat pocket, she reluctantly pulled out his phone and opened the lock screen. It was a text from Lestrade, but since she didn't know Sherlock's password Y/N could only read half of it. 

"Well?" asked Sherlock, opening his eyes. "What does it..."

Y/N turned around to face Sherlock, the phone still in her hand, when she realised he was staring at her, his mouth open slightly. And then she realised why.

She was wearing nothing but a small towel. Her pale arms were covered with goosebumps and her slim legs trembled with the cold air of the flat, and as she looked up at Sherlock she realised his entire face had flushed crimson.  
  
_Hmm. Maybe the prospect of sex_ does _make him uncomfortable,_ Y/N thought. She didn't feel completely awkward in this situation, despite being half-naked, but she supposed it was because she didn't really mind the young man she was stood in front of—although she knew with a man like Sherlock Holmes that a physical relationship was out of the question.

Sherlock looked down at the floor, his face still red.

"Um," he began, his voice quiet. "What does the text say?" Y/N had paused.

"Oh," she said, handing him his phone. "I don't know, but it's Lestrade; something's happened. I couldn't read it, though, because I don't know your password."

Sherlock looked up just enough to make eye-contact with her, trying to avoid seeing the rest of her body. Y/N frowned.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" she asked. "Do you want me to go and get dressed?"

"No, no, it's fine," he replied quickly. "It's just... no. It's fine." He took the phone from her hands and quickly typed in his password. He swiped the screen to the side and his face brightened up instantly.

"We've got a lead," he said quickly, rushing to get his coat and jacket.

"What?" Y/N asked, surprised. "What did he say?"

He turned the phone around so the screen faced her.

_Need you down at the station, we received another message from the murderer. We traced it back to where it came from and we found the man's name and address. He's called Eddie Stark, currently on the run but we're still searching for him. I'm on my way to bring you down here. Won't be long, so be ready.  
–Lestrade_

"They found him?" Y/N asked. "Maybe you could deduce something from his place."

"Possibly," Sherlock replied, shrugging on his coat. "In fact, probably. Lestrade will be here soon so just text him back for me, would you?" He pushed the phone back into her hands as he walked out the door, and she opened a new message to Lestrade. 

"My words exactly," Sherlock said as he knotted his scarf. "Tell him, _Don't bother, we'll get a cab._ "

Y/N did as she was told and sent the message before calling down the stairs to her friend, "I'm getting dressed, I won't be a second," to which Sherlock replied, "I'll wait for you by the door. Don't be long."

She wasn't long at all. Putting on some jeans and a dark red blouse, along with her favourite navy blue duffel coat, she didn't dress that much different from Sherlock himself. The only difference was that her coat wasn't as long as his and she didn't own a scarf.

Zipping up her boots and pulling a dark red beanie onto her head, she hopped down the stairs two at a time to join Sherlock by the door, who had already hollered a passing cab.

Climbing in and saying, "Scotland Yard, please," Y/N turned to Sherlock, who was looking the other way out of the window. She cleared her throat as Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Sherlock—"

"About earlier, Y/N," Sherlock interrupted unintentionally. "I'm sorry about... um... looking. At you." She realised what he meant just in time and blushed.

"It's fine, Sherlock," she replied. "It's my fault. I should have got dressed before coming down."

"Don't be stupid," he repeated the same phrase form earlier, this time quieter and less nasty. "I called you downstairs. You were only doing as you were told."

"Well, it's done with now," Y/N said with a smile. "It won't happen again."

Sherlock nodded casually, a small smile on his own face. 

The rest of the journey was made in comfortable silence until the cab pulled up outside Scotland Yard, and Y/N handed the cabbie her change. As soon as they stepped out of the cab, Detective Inspector Lestrade walked out to join them.

"There you are," he greeted us quietly, his usual calm demeanor evident. "Glad you're both here. Good to see you again, by the way, Y/N."

"You too, Greg." Y/N smiled before asking, "So, where did the murderer live?"

"He owned a house on the outskirts of Belgravia—nice place, considering the circumstances. We're going there now. Hey, Sherlock, isn't John coming along? I thought he was still doing this kind of thing."

Sherlock looked up at him coldly for a moment before looking past Lestrade to the police car behind him.

"Sadly not. He's with Mary and the baby at the moment; I feel as though he won't be joining us for a while. So for now, Y/N will have to do."

"Geez. Thanks, Sherlock," Y/N murmured sarcastically. But she could tell he was at least trying to make a joke, so even though it was a little insulting, she let it slide. Besides, she was as good an assistant to Sherlock as John was, and in her opinion, an even better friend. At least she never got mad at him for being a sociopath. She had always prided herself on that.

Lestrade drove them to Eddie Stark's house, and as soon as they arrived Y/N knew Greg was right; it was quite beautiful. Tall and painted completely white, it was a house that looked like it belonged in the most expensive part of Belgravia, not on the outskirts of it.

"This way," Lestrade called as he led them through the house and to the main sitting room. Y/N looked towards Sherlock, who had immediately inspected the floor for any marks or footprints. He almost jumped with delight at the sight of a patch of mud on the doorstep.

"He clearly wasn't expecting us to find his house," he muttered as he got down on his face to inspect the prints further. "Y/N, go out and see if the mud trail continues into the garden. If you need us, we'll be upstairs." Doing as she was told with a quiet sigh, Y/N nodded and reluctantly opened the back door, wandering out into the garden to look for the rest of the trail.

As he followed Sherlock up the stairs of the house, Lestrade asked, "So, what exactly are we looking for up here?"

"Anything that might lead us to our friend Eddie," Sherlock replied flatly, "or any signs that will tell us where he's going."

As they entered the bedroom, the first thing Sherlock saw was a map taped to one of the far walls above a small mahogany desk that was littered with papers and letters—presumably bills. Several seemingly random locations had been circled with a black felt tip, which Sherlock quickly discovered on the floor with the lid off, leaking all over the carpet. He took another look round the room, seeing two large piles of neatly-folded clothes on the bed, and a pair of smart black shoes perfectly placed by the mahogany wardrobe in the corner.

"He's in his mid forties... maybe early fifties," Sherlock murmured. "He is obsessive-compulsive but he left everything slightly messy or out of place because he left in a hurry."

"Oh?" Lestrade asked. "And how do you know that?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Look at the shoes by the wardrobe; they were carefully placed there in that way, perfectly aligned. The clothes on the bed are perfectly folded and ironed, too."

"He might just be a cleanliness freak."

"No," he continued. "Look. _Really_ look." Stepping up to the nearby bookshelf, he ran his index finger along the spines of the books, and gestured to them. "These titles. They're all in alphabetical order." He looked back at the piles of clothes. "Stark was getting ready to leave, but..." Quickly he walked over to the wardrobe and yanked it open, and a large black travel bag tumbled to the floor. It was empty.

"If he was going anywhere, he'd have needed this."

"What are you suggesting?" asked Lestrade, his patience wearing thin. Sherlock turned to face him, his face dark.

"I'm suggesting," he began quietly, "that Mr Stark never left at all." 

Sherlock walked over to the pile of clothes on the bed and picked up the garment on top—a pair of trousers. Tossing them to the side out of the way, he revealed from underneath an empty black gun holster.

"And I think he's armed."

 

Out in the garden, Y/N had found no sign of any prints or tracks in the mud except ones made by birds and squirrels. But choosing to search deeper, as was her curious nature, she rooted around in the flower bed, but suddenly she froze as she heard a clunk from inside the shed at the end of the garden.

Slowly turning to face it, she frowned and approached the old tool shed. As she stepped forward, her boot sank into the soft earth and she gasped in shock as she lost her footing. Lifting her foot out of the mud and stepping inside the shed, she looked around and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark.

Without warning, a hand held her mouth from behind and as she she tried to scream, another arm held firm across her chest to stop her from moving. The hand on her mouth was slowly removed and her blood ran cold when she heard a door slam and a click, feeling the barrel of a gun being held to the side of her head.

"Don't move," a male voice hissed behind her. "Stay right where you are. If you scream or try to get out, I _will_ shoot you." Y/N took a deep breath.

"Who are you?" she whispered, trying to stay as quiet as she could, guessing that he'd be a man of his word if she called out for help.

"That's none of your business," the voice replied coldly. "You're coming with me."

With that, the back door of the shed was swung open and Y/N was thrown over the garden fence by who she assumed was Eddie Stark, as suddenly she was bundled into a car and driven away down the road. Her world went dark when a bag was put over her head.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was borderline frantic.

"Has anyone seen a young lady in her twenties?!" Sherlock yelled, marching through the kitchen and into the living room of the house. "Small, [H/C] hair, wearing a blue coat! Has anyone seen Y/N?!"

"Sherlock, I checked with the men outside—they can't find her anywhere," Lestrade explained quietly, stepping up to his side. "This doesn't make sense. Where would she have gone?"

"She wouldn't have left without telling me," Sherlock replied. "And she wouldn't have left without me telling her to, either. Last time I saw her, I told her to look around the garden."

"But we've already checked!" Lestrade exclaimed. "There's no sign of her anywhere!"

"Oh, there probably is—you lot have just missed it."

Briskly walking through the kitchen and out of the back door, Sherlock immediately noticed the shed, which he overlooked at first, until he saw a small but deep footprint in the grass by the door. The door which, he noticed, had recently been opened.

Swinging it open, he looked around the old, dusty tool shed and searched for anything that would help him. He found that the back door of the shed was open, too, but the lock had been broken from the inside. There was a large, muddy footprint halfway up the door. It had been booted open.

Stepping back out into the light, Sherlock inspected the garden fence, then looked over it, then stared down at the pavement in dismay. Y/N's dark red beanie lay in a puddle on the tarmac, torn in two places. It hadn't been there for long. Also on the road was a set of black skid marks made by the tires of a car.

The event that had occurred was devastatingly obvious to Sherlock. He played the situation out in his head:

Y/N had been checking around the garden when she spotted the shed. Going to take a closer look she opened the door, but she lost her footing and her boot got stuck in the mud, so she paused in the doorway. Eddie Stark, who had been hiding in the shed to avoid the police, took advantage of her loss of balance and pulled her inside, holding her at gunpoint, which would explain the empty holster in his room, but not how he got it. He held her mouth from behind so she couldn't scream or call for help, and pulled the door closed with his leg as he booted the back door open. Then, forcing her to climb over the fence, her beanie fell off as she was pushed into the car that was awaiting her. The car then drove away without leaving a trace of evidence, except for the skid marks in the road, and the beanie they hadn't realised she'd dropped.

So not only now did Eddie Stark have a gun, an accomplice and two small children kidnapped, but he also had Y/N.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled. " _...Detective!_ "

Lestrade came running out with an armed policeman at his side.

"What? Have you found anything?" Sherlock explained what he knew about Y/N's kidnapping from start to finish. Lestrade sighed.

"Christ," he murmured, pressing a hand to his sweating forehead. "Stark could be miles away by now."

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied in a low voice, turning and walking towards the house.

"Where are you going?"

"Eddie Stark's bedroom; there has to be some clue in there to tell us something about where he's going." 

After making it back to Stark's room, Sherlock immediately began inspecting the map taped to the wall. He ran his finger over one of the circled locations.

"Where is this?" he asked. "I know every street in London, but I don't know if this place will be of significance to him or not." Lestrade walked up next to him to take a look.

"Yeah," he began. "That's the home of one of the kidnapped children. That's Luke Bateson's house."

"Okay," Sherlock murmured. He moved his finger to the other circled location. "And I'm guessing this is the other child's house?"

"Yes."

"Do these two children have any sort of connection?"

"They go to the same school and their mothers are good friends."

There were no other locations circled except the one Sherlock already knew about—Mr and Mrs Snow's house. Stark wouldn't be stupid enough to go to any of those places; the police were still there.

"So where would he go?" he murmured to himself. Sherlock left the map and quickly walked over to the bookshelf he'd studied earlier. He read the spines of the books but realised more than one had something in common. At least three of them were guides to London, or were about the most popular tourist destinations in London. Sherlock picked out several of them at random and found they were all bookmarked at least once.

"He's not from London," Sherlock said quietly. "These pages have all been marked for some reason." He set the books down on the mahogany desk and opened them at their bookmarks. All of them featured the Tower of London.

"Well, we know he's a fan of the Tower. Tower Bridge, too," remarked Lestrade, as he pointed to a picture of Tower Bridge that had been circled in all the books. "What can that tell us?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and a memory flashed in his head of John's first case with him.

_I've outlived four people..._

"He's taking them to Tower Bridge," he said quickly. "Does Stark have a history of illness?"

Lestrade looked taken aback before answering, "Actually, yes. He recently got diagnosed with a rare type of leukaemia."

At that moment, the phone of one of Lestrade's men rang. He answered the call and ended it seconds later. 

"Sir, the two children have been found in the old factory near Paddington station."

"Alright, go and get them," he responded quickly. As the officer rushed out of the room, Lestrade turned to his friend.

"You'd better be right about this, Sherlock," he murmured, his face dark.

"I am," he replied confidently. "But we need to be quick—he's taken Y/N hostage, too. I think he's going to make it look like a suicide. This is all too similar to _The Study In Pink_. Eddie Stark is dying of leukaemia, and he wants to outlive as many people as possible. But now the police know who he is, he's planning to kill himself at the place he's always wanted to visit." Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "But he's going to take Y/N with him."

"Jesus," Lestrade murmured. "We need to go."

Rushing out of the house and into the road, Sherlock quickly stopped Lestrade from jumping into his car.

"No!" he yelled, grabbing his arm. "A cab will be quicker!"

As Lestrade got out of his car Sherlock had been trying to holler a passing cab, and soon they were on their way to Tower Bridge.

When they arrived at the bridge, Sherlock jumped out of the cab and looked around for any signs of his friend.

"See them anywhere?" Lestrade called, running to catch up. Sherlock shook his head until he spotted two figures on the other side of the bridge, standing on the ledge with the River Thames roaring below them. Sherlock checked his watch. They didn't have long before the Bridge would lift.

"Stark!" Sherlock yelled angrily, running to where they were standing. "Stark, don't move!"

He had nearly reached them when he saw Eddie Stark with his arm around his hostage's neck, holding her in a headlock. Y/N, who had deep purple bruises on her tear-stained cheeks and her arm twisted the wrong way in its socket, gasped as she caught sight of her best friend.

"Sherlock!" she screamed. He was about to run to her when Eddie pulled out the gun. He heard Lestrade behind him pulling out his gun, too.

"Don't come any closer!" Stark yelled. "Or I'll jump!" He pulled his other arm tighter round Y/N's neck, almost strangling her. "And I'll take her with me!"

Y/N made a guttural choking sound and another tear dripped down her face.

"Where did you find the children?" Sherlock asked calmly. "The two children you kidnapped and left in the factory at Paddington." Eddie Stark's face darkened.

"You mean _my_ children?" he asked. "I'm their father!"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Ah, I see. Their mothers are both single, aren't they, Detective? They won the custody battle, and you just wanted them back. What about the Snow family, then? Robert, Jennifer and little Charlie Snow? What business did you have with them?"

"Jennifer Snow was my fiancé," he explained angrily over the noise of the traffic on the bridge. "Seven years ago she had an affair with Robert Snow and left me when she found she was pregnant with his child."

"And when you found out you had leukaemia you realised you didn't have long left to live, and you wanted revenge." Sherlock smiled. "Love truly _is_ a vicious motivator." His face darkened.

"But you have no connection to Y/N," he growled, "and she has done nothing to you. She's not even involved in the investigation—you can't kill her." Eddie Stark grinned nastily.

"Watch me." Y/N's face paled at his words, and Sherlock watched in horror as she swung round and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could. Crying out in pain and losing his balance on the ledge of the bridge, Stark slipped and let go of Y/N, falling backwards into the water of the Thames below him. Y/N fell, too, but managed to grab on to the bridge railing just in time.

"Sherlock!" she screamed, and he knew she couldn't hold on for long with her broken arm. Sherlock rushed over and pulled her away from the ledge just in time, and she collapsed to the pavement of Tower Bridge, a broken, crying heap on the ground. He carefully put one arm around her and helped her sit up, awkwardly patting her back, as he looked up at Lestrade for help.

"I'll call an ambulance," he said quietly. "You just stay with her."

 

The ambulance arrived not long afterwards, and fifteen minutes later Eddie Stark's body was pulled from the Thames. Y/N sat in the back of the ambulance with a blanket around her shoulders and her right arm in a sling. After Sherlock had explained all the smaller details of the case to Lestrade, he walked over to the ambulance and sat down next to her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, traces of concern seeping into his voice. She shrugged, her body wracked with shivers.

"Better," she replied earnestly. "A bit shaken up, I guess, but it could be worse. I could be floating around underwater right now." She smiled bravely. 

"I think I'll be okay after I get some rest." 

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Well, I just spoke to Lestrade; you don't have to go to the hospital for your arm so we can go straight back to the flat if you like. Mrs Hudson will have something nice prepared, I'm sure—or we could get some food elsewhere." He paused and looked at her. "Hungry?"

A small smile crept onto her face. "Ravenous."

Sherlock smiled and helped her up onto her feet, and they slowly began to walk down the road together.

"So, what did you think?" she asked after a moment or two of silence. Sherlock looked at her, confused. "Of me, I mean. Helping you out on a case."

"Oh," he replied, looking away with a smile. "Well, Y/N. You did very well. Obviously excluding the fact that you almost got killed twice, broke a bone, bruised both your cheeks and kicked a dangerous serial killer in the knee cap."

Y/N laughed loudly, throwing her head back so her hair cascaded behind her, blowing softly in the breeze.

"Yes, excluding all of that." She smiled, briefly putting a hand to her bruised cheek and wincing. "Are the bruises noticeable?"

"Yes, very." 

Oh well, she hadn't expected him to be compassionate about it. She nodded slowly and looked away, falling back into obedient silence. Sherlock turned to her, glancing down at the sling that held her broken arm in place.

"How did that happen, exactly?" he asked, his hand tracing down her arm and holding it for a second.

"Oh," she exclaimed, looking embarrassed. "In Eddie Stark's garden... he was waiting for me, hiding in the shed."

"Yes, I know. He held you at gunpoint, I assume?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"And forced you to climb over the garden fence?" Y/N frowned uncomfortably.

"Actually, he didn't really need to force me. He sort of just... picked me up and threw me over. I landed on my arm and face; that's why I'm so bruised up."

Sherlock frowned at her, causing her to look away again, thinking she was in trouble.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock asked. Y/N sighed, her voice laced with irritation as she spoke.

"Because it was a stupid mistake to make," she said, still facing the other way as she walked. "I should have just kicked him from behind like I did on the bridge, then none of this would have happened."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said flatly. "He was holding you at gunpoint—he would have shot you. There was nothing you could have done."

" _You_ could have done something."

"I know, I was an idiot. l should have been there with you."

"No, I mean... you're clever," Y/N said. "You would have found some way to stop him had _you_ been in that situation." Sherlock accepted the compliment with a smile.

"I'm sure I would. But give yourself some credit. After all, you are still alive."

Y/N smiled. "Yeah... yeah, I suppose I am."

 

It was dark by the time Y/N and Sherlock got back to the flat. Sherlock took Y/N's coat, being careful not to go near her broken arm, and they both rushed upstairs before they had to deal with the fiery rage that would be Mrs Hudson if she saw the state of them both.

Sherlock ushered Y/N into the living room and quickly closed the door behind them, before walking over to take up his violin and play a short piece of music to check it was in tune.

Y/N watched in awe.

"When did you learn to play the violin?" she asked curiously. "And why? I'd intended to ask you at the wedding, but I forgot."

"Oh, it was my brother Mycroft's idea when I was younger," he explained, fiddling with the strings. "I've always loved music, so it was a good way to get my mind off things."

"I see," she said quietly. "Well, you... you don't play much. I mean, I rarely ever see you play. Why is that?"

Sherlock ignored her last question. He looked down sadly and held his violin up to his cheek, and began playing a soft, slow Waltz. Dr and Mrs Watson's waltz: the reason he didn't play anymore: Because it reminded him too much of John.

When he finished, he quickly put down the violin and said, "Please excuse me," as he quickly walked out of the living room and down the corridor.

Y/N sighed and touched her free hand to her cheek, which was beginning to swell painfully. She winced and left the room, getting an ice pack from the fridge and holding it up to her cheek. She cursed under her breath as it seared with pain.

She heard a knock at the door moments later, and turned around to see a familiar old lady stood in the doorway, holding a tray with two cups of tea on it.

"Yoo-hoo!" she called cheerfully as she knocked, but gasped as she saw the state of Y/N. She hurriedly put the tray down on the table and rushed over to her.

"Oh my goodness, dear, what happened?" she asked, taking the ice pack from her and holding it up to Y/N's cheek herself.

"Nothing, Mrs Hudson," Y/N replied with a smile, trying to ignore the steadily-increasing pain in her face. "Just an accident on a case that Sherlock took me on."

Mrs Hudson frowned and suddenly Sherlock appeared from round the corner in his red dressing gown.

"Is everything alright, Mrs Hudson?" he asked.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson scolded. "Don't just leave Y/N on her own when she's in such a state!"

"Thanks, Mrs H, but I think I can—"

"You need to be looking after her, Sherlock!"

"Mrs Hudson, I really think I can look after myself—"

"Here, you hold this for her," she continued, pushing the ice pack into Sherlock's hands as she went to get the tea from the living room. Sherlock nodded.

"She has a point," he admitted quietly after she left the room. "Someone needs to be here to make sure you don't put too much strain on it." Mrs Hudson returned a moment later and placed the tea on the table next to Sherlock's microscope before leaving them in peace.

"Thank you." As soon as she'd left, Sherlock took the ice pack and placed it softly to Y/N's cheek, and the pain faded.

"Thanks, Sherlock, but I really can look after myself," Y/N insisted as he moved the ice to the other cheek.

"I know," he murmured. "You've been looking after yourself all day. But as you proved on the bridge, sometimes you need someone there to catch you when you fall. Or to prevent you from falling altogether, in this case."

"Yeah," she conceded quietly, knowing that he had a point. Sherlock smiled, then looked past her and to the clock in the living room. 

"It's getting late. I think I'm going to retire for the evening."

"Me too," Y/N replied. She slowly rested her hand on top of his, that was still holding the ice to her cheek. She looked up at him. 

"Thank you for saving my life today, Sherlock." 

He smiled.

"It was my pleasure," he replied truthfully.

Taking a big risk (and leap forward in their friendship), Y/N softly pressed her lips to Sherlock's cheek as just a small token of gratitude for saving her on the bridge, and to show Sherlock just how much he meant to her. When he didn't flinch away, she affectionately kissed him on the lips, too.

Eventually she pulled away, smiling at him gratefully. Her heart leapt in her chest when she saw that, to her surprise, he was also smiling—probably to let her know that what she'd done wasn't out of line. After the moment passed, she cleared her throat.

"I'm going to get some sleep," she said quietly. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes," he replied. "Hopefully Mrs Hudson will have some breakfast ready for us." Y/N shook her head knowingly as Sherlock went into the living room to retrieve his violin.

"One of us really needs to learn how to cook," she said with a laugh. "I bet we drive her insane."

Sherlock let out a low momentary chuckle as he crossed the living room to the hallway, before turning back to glance at her. He smiled.

"Well... goodnight, Miss [Last Name]." Y/N grinned as she opened the door that lead to the stairs.

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes. Sweet dreams."

With that, Sherlock and Y/N went their separate ways to the bedrooms, and both of them, in the knowledge that they were in each other's company, had a peaceful and dreamless night's sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? How did I do? Tell me your opinion in the comments! ^-^


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